


Lift Me

by raregloves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raregloves/pseuds/raregloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midday, Venice. Irene knows just what she wants from Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lift Me

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: If you're taking prompts still could you do domestic/smutty Irene/Sherlock? (:

Irene was stretched out on the balcony, naked except for Sherlocks dressing gown. The sun was directly overhead, warming her skin deliciously. She had been reading with her sunglasses on, but even so the glare of the paper as it reflected the light back at her was making her wince.  
  
Below her, the street was mostly silent. In the middle of the hottest summer days it often became still in the city. A feeling of leisure seeped into the air. It was wonderfully different to London, which had always been a trifle cold and conservative for her.  
  
After all, it wasn’t possible to lounge about naked on the balcony in Baker Street without risking some sort of scandal… Mycroft and his cameras, the media circus that persisted in hounding Sherlock… No, she had been right to suggest Venice.  
  
Sherlock was inside, walking around the kitchen. He was only wearing a pair of white underpants. Irene lowered her sunglasses a little to get a better view. Men weren’t typically her type, but Sherlock was a fine exception to the rule.  
  
His arse was wonderfully round, though his hipbones were sharp, and she could see the dark trail of her that vanished into the waistband of his underpants. His hair, always curly, was a thick and wild mess from the previous night.  
  
Irene folded the corner of her book and put it aside for later. She hadn’t let Sherlock fuck her last night (had been to busy keeping him on the edge, for hours, with nothing more than her fingers and mouth).  
  
She stood, wrapping his gown around herself, and moved into the living room that opened directly onto the kitchen. The tiles were cold under her bare feet.  
  
Sherlock was cooking, which was a singularly unusual sight. She was almost tempted to find her phone and record him, for posterity. But he wouldn’t take kindly to that, so instead she watched.  
  
He was frowning a little to himself as he worked. His hands were almost too large to hold the dainty silver utensils he’d found in the draws, and he was making an awful mess of the bread.  
  
‘Do you always cut your crusts off?’ Irene asked, walking over to get a better look.  
  
Sherlock went a little pink and didn’t answer.  
  
‘It’s sweet,’ she said, kissing his shoulder. ‘But you don’t need to cook for me.’  
  
‘I thought you might be hungry,’ Sherlock said awkwardly. Irene looked at him, curious now.  
  
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, raising an eyebrow. ‘I can tell when you want to charm someone, Sherlock.’  
  
‘Worth a try,’ he said, grinning.  
  
‘Not when that’s the best you’ve got,’ she said, indicating the sandwiches. ‘You’ll be getting a pity fuck. How on earth did you feed yourself at university?’  
  
‘Can’t remember,’ Sherlock said, unconcerned. ‘You always take my dressing gown.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Irene said, smiling. ‘But I was talking about fucking. I’m rather in the mood, aren’t you?’  
  
Sherlock didn’t answer, but she hadn’t been expecting him too. He was displaying all the signs of violent arousal. He must have woken up frustrated, Irene thought, and decided that feeding her would be the first step towards pleasing her.  
  
‘It’s a shame you’re such an awful cook,’ she said softy. ‘Otherwise I’d have given you a kiss too.’  
  
Instead of kissing him, she reached down to pull off his underpants. He watched her, eyes dark. His cock sprang forwards the moment it was free from the cotton, and Irene was flattered to see it was already wet at the tip.  
  
‘Keen boy,’ she said, giving it a few lazy strokes which had Sherlock biting down on his bottom lip to keep himself quiet. ‘Lovely…’  
  
She paused, with her hand wrapped around him, relishing the heat of his cock, the feeling of his blood rushing underneath his skin. Irene slipped her free hand between her own legs and sighed.  
  
Already she was hot and damp for him, aching for the sensation of his cock filling her up. While he watched, she pressed her thumb down over her clit, before sliding one of her own fingers in, teasing them both.  
  
‘Irene-’  
  
‘Hush,’ she said, eyes half closed. She slid her finger in deeper, making Sherlock moan in envy, then slid it out again. It was wet, and she rubbed her finger around the head of his cock, until it glistened.  
  
‘Please,’ Sherlock said, so softly she almost didn’t hear it.  
  
Irene shoved off the dressing gown and tossed it aside. She felt her nipples harden both with arousal and the sudden touch of cooler air, in stark contrast to the heat of her own body.  
  
‘Hands on my arse,’ she said, and Sherlock followed her orders at once, reaching around to seize each of her arse cheeks. ‘I want you to fuck me against the wall. Now.’  
  
He picked her up with ease, and Irene swung both her legs around his waist as he walked them backwards. Her back hit the kitchen wall with a slight thump, and she arched against it, steadying herself with her hands on his shoulders.  
  
Irene locked her ankles together behind his back, desperately aroused. Briefly she thought about how she must look- dark hair falling around her pale shoulders, nipples taught, the pink mouth of her cunt open and willing against his length.  
  
Sherlock pressed her back against the wall, and angled his hips. She felt the blunt tip of his cock rub slowly through her, parting her without entering. She moaned at his teasing, letting her nails bite into him a little.  
  
Sherlock pressed his hips forward. His cock breached her and Irene cried out, twitching forwards to meet him. She could feel how she gripped him, how she pulsed around him, and clearly Sherlock could feel it too, for sweat had broken out across his top lip.  
  
It was a thorough fucking, almost rough. Irene felt her back hit the kitchen wall. Sherlock was letting out low grunts, his low regular grunts almost obscuring the wet sound of his body moving within hers. Her toes curled, and she dragged her nails down his back, not too hard, but hard enough to make him cry out her name into the side of her neck.  
  
She deliberately clenched around him. They both shouted, Irene closing her eyes as Sherlock moved over her g-spot. She arched against him, twisting her hips, drawing him deeper, and felt a white-hot pleasure explode upwards from the depths of her cunt, heating her limbs, melting her muscles.  
  
 _‘Sh- Sher- oh- oh fuck-’_  
  
Words failed her. Time seemed to have slipped away.  
  
Sherlock was soft inside of her, his sweaty chest and arms wrapped close around her, warm and comforting. He carried her to the living room and rested her on the lounge.  
  
Irene blinked up at him. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes so bright he might’ve been crying. Before she could speak he dashed into the bedroom, emerging with a blanket, which he wrapped around them both. She wriggled until she was half-resting on his lap.  
  
‘Good morning,’ he said, chuckling. ‘I hope you slept well.’  
  
‘Wonderfully,’ Irene said, suppressing a laugh. She kissed his ear, which was the easiest part of his face to reach given her present location.  
  
His hands ran up and down her back. She could feel him tracing spirals and words into her skin, but felt too tired to work out what they were. It was probably music related. He had always associated her with his violin, with the escape and pleasure that music brought him.  
  
‘Do you have any actual plans for the day?’ Irene asked eventually. ‘We could go out to dinner…’  
  
Sherlock snorted. It had become something of a joke between them, dinner.  
  
‘Well, unless you want to eat the lunch I so kindly prepared for you…’ Sherlock said, and Irene laughed, remembering the badly mangled sandwich.  
  
‘Dinner,’ she said, ‘would be lovely.’

**Author's Note:**

> You can send me a prompt on my tumblr- I love rare pair fic :)
> 
> raregloves.tumblr.com


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